by Alex Kava
She wondered if the stack of envelopes had long been forgotten. She had found them the last time she stayed at her mom’s house in Cleveland. The bundled stack was stuffed in the back drawer of the guest-room bureau. Forgotten perhaps, but important enough to save. And her mom was definitely not the pack-rat type. The letters were even kept in chronological order. Again, not something her mom would do unless these were special.
Emma didn’t know anyone who even wrote real letters anymore. This was a treat. Especially if Emma’s suspicions were true. Were these old love letters her dad had written to her mom before they were married? That was like awesomely romantic. It was like taking a peek into a part of her own history.
She settled back into her pillows.
August 26, 1982
Dear Liney,
I got in last night around eight. Yes, safe and sound. You didn’t need to worry. Although now I can admit I was a little rattled about flying. I know I told you it didn’t bother me and I know I’m right about the odds of two major crashes happening within a couple months of each other. It’s just not going to happen. But for a few minutes when I sat in the plane while we were still on the tarmac at O’Hare I did think about all those burning body parts blown all over that New Orleans neighborhood. I just told myself that I’m going to be the guy who investigates what went wrong.
You should see this place. Quantico’s like a whole little town hidden inside a pine forest. I guess I expected military barracks or something.
I found my room at the dorm. Three guys to a room and they’re not big rooms. But that’s okay. The other guys don’t seem too bad. Hey, we all want to be feebies, so we’ve got that in common.
It’s funny, because almost immediately we assigned each other nicknames. That’s not entirely true, “Razzy” came with his and thought we all needed one, so Reggie’s J.B. because the guy eats jelly beans like his life depended on it. Seriously, he brought his own bag. I think it’s a three-pounder. He says President Reagan eats them, too. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I picked up the latest Time at the airport because they had an interview with Reagan. They didn’t mention anything about jelly beans. Just about the recession and him riding horses with the queen. But hey, if he eats jelly beans that’s kinda cool.
Oh and my nickname—bet you’d never guess. It’s Indy. Yeah, okay, obviously because I’m from Indiana. These guys have no clue where Indiana is, let alone Terre Haute.
I know I told you once that I hate nicknames. You remember that, right? Mostly because as a kid my dad called me “dimwit” or “klutz.” Stupid stuff like that. But I don’t mind this nickname. I actually like it. It reminds me of the movie, you know, Indiana Jones. That was the second movie we saw together last summer, remember? Of course you remember. How could you forget, right?
So anyway, I kind of like the idea of being associated with a guy who carries a whip and wins the girl with very little effort. That’s definitely more my style than klutz. More my style than what my dad had in store for me. He was still going off on me this morning about deserting the family business. Hey, I even look a little like Harrison Ford, don’t you think? Besides, Indiana Jones, Indy, is definitely more in line with what I have in mind for myself.
Yeah, Quantico is only the beginning of my brilliant career. I’ve got big plans.
Until next time.
Yours truly,
Indy
Emma pulled out the next one but stopped when she heard the front door. Footsteps marched directly to her bedroom. What now? She swooped up the letters and stuffed them under her bedcovers, just as the knock came.
“Hey, sweet pea,” her dad called. There was no anger. She sighed in relief. “I have to do a favor for Maggie. You want to go for a drive with me?”
Normally she’d groan and make some excuse. But tonight she didn’t mind. Maybe she was curious to see if she could notice any trace of Indiana Jones.
CHAPTER
19
Razzy’s
Downtown Pensacola, Florida
Rick Ragazzi closed out the cash register, slamming the tray, hoping his partner, his cousin Joey, would take the hint. He couldn’t seem to get Joey to understand that this was a business not his private haven to entertain guests. Tonight Joey prepared crème brûlée, on the house, for a group of six who’d stopped by after the Saenger Theatre’s evening production up the street. It would have been an okay gesture for a party of six who maybe had dropped several hundred bucks on dinner, but this group had ordered only coffee.
“What? No dessert?” Joey had joked, stopping at their table during his usual stroll to greet the guests while his kitchen staff cleaned up for the night. He asked their head waitress, Rita, to pour more coffee for the group while he headed back to the kitchen. Within minutes he returned, presenting his creation. He had them laughing and applauding. Cousin Joey, the chef, was no better than an actor, craving and demanding attention, then lapping up praise.
They were so different from each other that sometimes Rick wondered how they could be related. Of course, it was those differences that made them such good partners. Rick had the head for business. He was a numbers guy, an operations whiz. He had calculated salaries, overhead, product cost and was able to come up with a plan, complete with projections, net earnings and profit margin. But it wasn’t because of his thrifty spending and efficient management that they were able to post a profit after only eight months in business. Even Rick knew it didn’t matter how brilliant his business plan would be without his charming cousin, the award-winning chef. At twenty-four Joey was a culinary magician or at least, that was what Gourmet magazine had called him.
People came to the restaurant the first time out of curiosity. They returned over and over again because they liked the food. And that was all Joey. Rick made sure the staff was well trained, courteous and prompt. But he couldn’t poach an egg or filet a piece of fish to save his soul. He looked down at his hands, nicks and cuts in various stages of healing. The most recent reminder was a cut on his index finger from attempting to help chop vegetables. Joey was definitely the talent, the product. Rick was simply the manager.
Their success got a boost from trendy spring breakers and summer tourists. Now came the tough part. They’d need to hold on until they entered the holiday season. September had already shown a slowing down. October would be the hardest. And just yesterday their main refrigerator, the expensive monster that Joey insisted they had to have, had started freaking out on them. Of course, the warranty expired last month and the repairman claimed it needed a whole new compressor—seven hundred dollars they hadn’t planned for.
Rick watched Joey with his audience. It was hard to stay impatient with him. When they first started setting up the place Rick suggested they replace the kitchen wall with glass so diners could watch Joey perform. Turned out to be too expensive, so they put it off. Otherwise they would have done it. Rick was used to Joey being the center of attention. He really didn’t mind. Sometimes he joined in and played Joey’s straight man. As kids they actually did bits at family gatherings with Rick doing the setup and Joey getting the punch line. Everyone thought it was cute because Rick was a couple years older and bigger, a bit taller, back then.
As teenagers they were each other’s best friend. During the summers they chased girls together on Pensacola Beach until Rick finally admitted he really didn’t like girls all that much. Even that admission had been something they worked through together, with Joey being the first one to say it wasn’t that big of a deal. It just meant less competition for him.
In college, Joey studied culinary arts, and Rick, business management. Opening a restaurant together seemed a no-brainer for both of them. But keeping it open would perhaps be a miracle. Especially since they had no silent partner, no rich beneficiary or obligated family members.
Rick’s family wasn’t interested and Joey refused to accept help from his father. Rick wasn’t sure why Joey was being so stubborn. Uncle Vic, at least, wanted to he
lp and unlike Rick’s dad, Uncle Vic had never called Rick “a queer” or told the two they’d “never make it.” Hard to believe the two men were brothers.
Rick had honored Joey’s wishes. But Joey had no idea how much it cost to run things each month, each week. Rick knew their meager summer profit would never get them through a slowwinter. If they had to close the doors any one of the area’s restaurants would snatch up the opportunity to have Joey Ragazzi. But Rick? What would he do? Get a job at one of the local accounting firms?
Hell, this was his one chance. So when the envelope from Uncle Vic came about a week ago—to Rick, not Joey—he decided not to tell Joey, but not to send it back, either. Made sense. Even Uncle Vic understood his son wouldn’t take his help, but maybe his cousin would. There was a thousand dollars in cash. Rick had counted it twice then put it back inside the sealed Ziploc plastic bag it came in.
He justified his secrecy by telling himself a thousand dollars wasn’t enough to make or break them. It wasn’t a big deal. And yet this week with the refrigerator compressor going out, a thousand dollars could change everything.
CHAPTER
20
Newburgh Heights, Virginia
R. J. Tully mashed cooked carrots into the stainless-steel bowl. He knew the routine and in case he forgot, Maggie had instructions on a laminated note card attached to the inside cupboard door. His partner rarely asked favors and the few times she had all involved taking care of Harvey.
He looked out the kitchen window at the white Lab catching the glow-in-the-dark Frisbee each time, no matter how wild of a throw Emma sent him. Tully shook his head. She’d never been good at athletics. Maybe his fault. Their father-daughter sports outings included a remote and recliners more often than a glove and a baseball.
He pushed up his already folded shirtsleeves and added dry dog food to the bowl. Then he stirred in the mess of carrots. He was glad he had stopped and picked up his daughter. She had a special connection with Maggie’s dog, Harvey. He liked watching them together. Being with Harvey was one of the few times Emma let her guard down. She could run and laugh and be silly with the dog. Tully felt like he was seeing a snapshot in time, a time not that long ago, and it reminded him of that ache—half awe, half protectiveness. He used to get that feeling just looking at her when she was a baby and then a toddler. He’d catch himself watching her and shake his head in disbelief that he was a father of such a beautiful, smart and funny little girl.
“How about putting on a sweatshirt?” he yelled out the back door.
She ignored him. He expected it despite his reminiscing. He’d give them a few more minutes before he let Harvey know his dinner was ready.
Tully filled the water bowl and cleaned up the counter. The kitchen was huge. The house, the backyard, the property was huge, especially compared to Tully’s two-bedroom bungalow in Reston. He understood Maggie had bought the place in this prestigious neighborhood with some sort of trust her father had left her. She kept the house nice and simple but classy with a few scattered pieces that made it feel like a home. The place seemed sparse, again, perhaps only compared to his messy, overflowing bungalow.
Still, he knew the house and décor had little to do with why Maggie had bought this property. The purchase had more to with the natural barrier of the river that ran behind the house and the privacy fence surrounding it along with the state-of-the-art security system.
Tully looked around the well-stocked kitchen and wondered if Maggie ever cooked. Her best friend, Gwen Patterson, was a gourmet cook, just one of her many talents that Tully appreciated. They’d sort of been seeing each other officially for several months. Though he wasn’t quite sure if she’d agree their relationship was “official.” They hadn’t really declared it as such and he had no idea what criteria had to be met to make it official. Maybe it was just in his own mind. He hadn’t been with another woman since his divorce from Caroline. Gwen thought he was doing her a favor by letting them take things slow. Tully let her believe the favor was one-sided. It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. Fact was, anything more serious scared the hell out of him.
“He’s hungry.” Emma came racing in with Harvey wagging behind her. She didn’t wait for Tully. She grabbed the bowl off the counter and presented the food to Harvey, making him go to his designated eating place, telling him to sit and then setting the bowl down.
Yes, she sure did remind him of when she was little, bright eyes and lopsided grin, sitting on the floor next to the dog with knees up, one pink scar showing through the threadbare denim. She looked…happy. Amazing that a dog could do what a father couldn’t.
“Is Maggie okay?” she asked.
The question surprised Tully. For one thing it was a grown-up question and he was reminiscing about his little girl. Also Emma rarely asked about anyone unless it somehow concerned her. She wasn’t rude, she was just a teenager. That stage where everything and everyone in the world either didn’t exist or existed only to revolve around them.
“She’ll be okay,” he said. And he knew that was true, despite her panic. Actually Maggie had been good at hiding her panic. No one else probably saw it. He almost wished he hadn’t. It didn’t seem natural to see Maggie vulnerable.
“So what’s up with the special delivery?”
Emma pointed to the bouquet of flowers they had found wrapped neatly in tissue and left at Maggie’s front door. It looked to Tully that the local florist knew exactly where to tuck them on the portico, safe from the wind and drive-by viewers, as if the florist was used to delivering to this address. Tully knew Maggie had been getting flowers at Quantico, too. And although she didn’t explain or comment, he gathered that she wasn’t too happy about the deliveries, but at the same time she didn’t seem distressed.
Women. Sometimes Tully thought he’d never figure them out.
“A secret admirer,” Tully told Emma.
“Oh, so she’s not, like, sick and dying or something?”
“No. God no,” Tully said before he caught himself. Then he smiled, trying to defuse any indication in his voice that might have said otherwise. He hoped that wasn’t the case, that she was seriously sick. Of course that wasn’t the case.
“You said she’d be gone overnight?” Emma wanted to know.
“Yeah, she’ll be back tomorrow.” He hoped that was true.
“We’re not going to leave Harvey here by himself all night, are we?”
“He’ll be okay, sweet pea. He’s stayed here by himself before.” But she didn’t look convinced. She was petting him as he licked up the last remnants, orange bits of carrot stuck to the black part of his nose.
“If we take him with us it’ll save us a trip in the morning to feed him.”
She gave him that look, that “pretty-please” look.
“And tomorrow’s Saturday,” she said. “I’ll stay home and watch him.”
“What if your friends call?” He knew she hadn’t thought this out. Emma? Home all day on a Saturday? Tully was sure it’d take more than a dog, even a dog she adored, to keep her from hanging out at the mall or going to a movie on a precious Saturday.
“I’ll just tell them I can’t. That we’re doing a favor for a friend. They’ll understand. That’s what you do for friends, right?” She gave Harvey’s neck a hug and the dog’s tail thumped against the wall. “And Harvey and I are buds, right, Harvey? Besides, I don’t have school on Monday either. Fall break, remember?”
He liked the idea of having Emma home, though he’d have to see her actually stay home for three days in order to believe it. Next weekend was the wedding and she’d be distracted and gone. But she was right. If they needed to come back it was a forty-minute drive from here to their home in Reston. Tully was pretty sure Maggie would not be released tomorrow, probably not all weekend. He only hoped she didn’t realize that.
“That’s kinda cool,” Emma said and Tully had no idea what she was talking about until she pointed to the flowers again. “It’s sweet, you know, to ha
ve someone send you flowers.” Then she sideswiped him with her follow-up, “Did you ever send flowers to Mom?”
Tully’s cell phone interrupted before he could answer.
Saved.
He shrugged an apology as he glanced at the phone number but it wasn’t one he recognized.
“Agent Tully.”
“So what do you have for me?” a man’s voice bellowed.
“Excuse me?”
There was dead air for a few seconds then, “This is Sloane, for Christ’s sake. You called me, remember?”
Tully had left a message for George Sloane earlier in the day. He hadn’t worked with Sloane for a while and had almost forgotten about his brusque, rude “why are you bothering the mighty Oz?” manner.
“And I appreciate the quick call back,” Tully said, getting in his own dig, although he already knew Sloane wouldn’t catch it or acknowledge it. Actually it was a cheap dig, really sort of beneath Tully, but something about George Sloane always brought out the worst in Tully. “Assistant Director Cunningham would like your expert opinion on a special delivery we had this morning.”
“So why isn’t Cunningham calling?”
Tully suppressed a sigh and shook his head. It wasn’t about protocol with Sloane. It was about entitlement. If prodded he would insist he was important enough to be asked by the top-level people, not a “grunt like Tully.”
“He’s a bit tied up right now,” Tully said and was reminded that he hadn’t been able to talk with his boss since morning. He had tried to see Cunningham at USAMRIID. They wouldn’t allow it. Seeing Maggie was grudgingly allowed and even then as a sort of consolation prize. He hadn’t been able to reach Cunningham by phone, either.
